The Charnel House of Lost Memories
by Dawg
Where the dead ambitions gather, bones stacked in careful piles,
and silence is a thick shroud, dust-swept and bitter,
fragments of broken memory, dressed in shadow’s guile,
lie beneath the rafters, neither forgiven nor fitter.
Yet not all is decay in this mausoleum of defeat–
within the detritus of dreams, seeds of new power meet.
Every echo here is a lesson pressed in salt and regret,
whispering that what was lost is not wholly spent–
for from decay rises a harvest of meaning unmet,
strength conjured from every wound, from each tormented event.
Memory’s ruins grow wild flowers among the skulls,
and every regret is a step, however brutal, toward what the future culls.
Past ghosts may rattle chains, beg to be mourned,
but in their unrest, they shape tomorrow’s form.
Shards of fractured time glint, catching what little light seeps in,
each piece a talisman, every agony a win.
Bones whisper: let the past rot, let old griefs decay–
but in their mulch, new roots take hold, strong and fey.
What’s dead will never die, not fully, not in the living heart;
in the bones of failure, the fire of resolve restarts.
From the charnel house emerges a survivor, forged in dusk–
one who wears sorrow as armor, and memory as musk.